Change
by luxdelumine
Summary: Draco is becoming an expert on 'not'. Not thinking, not feeling, not sleeping. Set after DH, ignores epilogue. SLASH, don't like, don't read. Rated M for language and sexual content.


_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, and I don't make any money off this fic_

_**Title:** Change_

_**Pairing:** Harry/Draco. Slash_

_**Rating:** M, for language and sexual content._

_**Summary:** Set after Deathly Hallows, ignores the epilogue. The students have been invited back to finish their seventh year, and Draco is becoming an expert on 'not'. Not thinking, not feeling, not sleeping._

_**A/N** First HP fic ever, first slash (first smut actually). Review and let me know how I did?!_

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Never show weakness. Better yet, never be weak. You learned that early and lately you've really come to master the art of deception and masking your…emotions. It's been a month since you returned to finish your seventh year. When the letter came you could easily think of a hundred places where you would rather have gone, but your mother looked at you with tear-filled eyes and a trembling lip, and somehow no reason seemed good enough. So you're back wandering the halls of Hogwarts. Everyone who looks at you still sees the same haughtily raised chin and cruel sneer and you think that's a good thing because you don't want anyone to look at you and see something else. You don't want them to see the regrets or the guilt or the fucking pain.

The other students don't see behind the mask though, too busy sending glares in your direction, whispering or flat out telling you that you're a murderer. Some days the word pisses you off, but most of the time you don't have the energy to even fucking care. Caring doesn't do anyone any good and all you want to do is not bloody _think_. But Crabbe's spot at the Slytherin table is vacant and you still find it hard to keep your food down at times when your gaze falls on the empty seat.

The Golden Trio - the fucking 'war heroes' - is back too of course (all because of know-it-all-Granger of that you're sure). You grit your teeth each time you catch a glimpse of bushy hair or hear the whiny voice of the Weasel because their fucking light-hearted banter or comforting small-talk is revolting.

But what really annoy you the most is the Boy Who Wouldn't Fucking Die Already and how he is everywhere you look. Actually, what bothers you the most is the fact that you're thankful he didn't die, that you see him in the hallways and you feel a pang of relief and something else in the pit of your stomach because he's there and he's breathing and he won.

He looks different somehow (you've noticed and you despise yourself for it.) Like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his shoulders, which in a way it has. He's grown over the summer. He's taller now with broader shoulders and greener eyes. Bloody git. He has ended things with the she-Weasel. You've heard the rumors, they've spread all the way down to the dungeons, but you would have noticed anyhow. You tell yourself it's the years of hating his guts and never failing to send an insult or a hex flying his way that has you still – constantly - looking his way. You do it out of habit. Old habits die hard, that's all there is to it.

You go to class, you eat, you have nightmares and you do everything in your power not to think. You've perfected the art of 'not'. You write your mother letters and tell her that 'everything is fine, and yes the schoolwork is going alright and how is she doing?' You don't ask about _him_, because you don't think of _him_, (and even if you did there's nothing much left to say. Some scars run too deep to be fixed in a summer's time, or ever.)

It's Friday, you're down in the common room in the dungeons and there is a party going on in the lions' freaking tower. You know that and so does everyone else. The fact that anyone has yet to make some snide comment about the lame festivities has you in such a mood that no one has dared looking your way for the last half hour. But there is something swirling in your gut and complicating your task of not thinking, so you stand up - immediately catching the attention of everyone in the room - and put on your best deaden expression. _I feel like having a free drink_, you declare, and leave the room, ignoring the feeling of your heart pounding in your chest, because you don't care enough about anything to doubt your actions anymore.

They follow you of course, Zabini and some of the others. You can hear music before you enter through the portrait with the fat old hag who has apparently been doing a bit of drinking herself, because she does nothing but scoff haughtily when you tell her to let you in. (yes, you tell her to let you in, it's not like you would ever fucking ask nicely)

The Gryffindor common room is packed with students drinking and talking and dancing and being fucking merry. Gryffindors of course, and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, all happy and blissfully drunk. The room goes eerily quiet, except for the blasting music, as you walk through the portrait hole, everyone in the room suddenly looking your way. For a second you start to doubt your decision to come here, and the thought is infuriating. You clench your jaw so tight it hurts, (and you need that drink right now), when the fucking Boy Wonder calls out to one of his housemates and breaks the silence. His voice has people stop staring at you and return to whatever it was that they were doing (fucking show-off, you're not his charity case.) Then a drunk-off-his-ass Ravenclaw shows you in the direction of the booze and that's the kind of help you might consider accepting.

You're knocking back your first shot of firewhiskey, relishing in the burning sensation as it slides down your throat, when you find that he's staring at you and you nearly choke on your drink. He looks right at you with bright green eyes and your head is spinning because there is no hostility or mockery in their emerald depths. Not a fucking trace of anger. You're still holding the bottle of firewhiskey, and when he raises his beer in a brief but apparent salute, you mimic his gesture and takes a swig straight from the bottle (what the hell does he think he's doing?)

You keep the bottle and don't bother with a glass. The music is pounding in your head and the whiskey is doing a great job enhancing your shielding bubble and cutting you off from everything and everyone. So you drink and observe from a corner of the room. Before you know it it's late, and the people still left are in various states of completely wasted. Longbottom is passed out in a plushy, velvet armchair and some younger students are playing a very x-rated game of Truth and Dare. Zabini is putting his best moves on the she-Weasel and if the fact that he is still breathing isn't proof she's no longer with Potter you don't know what is. You search the room for her brother, and find the reason why he isn't making a fool of himself in some lame attempt to defend his sister's 'honor' as would be expected. He is on one of the couches, hands tangled in the brown mane of Granger and his tongue shoved down her throat. She is straddling him in a manner you only observe in public at two am in the morning. It's a little like watching a car crash happening, and it kind of turns your stomach, but still you can't seem to look away. You really didn't think the Mud… _witch_, had it in her. Props to the Gryffindor Princess for instigating the removal of her chastity belt in public. But it's still gross.

You finally succeed in diverting your gaze from the scene unfolding in front of you, only to find that he's looking at you again and fuck it's like being caught in a maelstrom. Your head is swimming and you frown at the voice inside your head that is telling you it has nothing to do with the alcohol in your system. You quickly look away, but then for some reason you look back and he is still looking at you. He is looking at you and it feels like he can see right through your bubble and right into your core. People have been staring and glaring for over a month, but when he looks at you it is as if he is the only one who actually see something and Merlin it's so wrong. The spinning room picks up pace, the world soon a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows. People talking and laughing, blasting music and fragments of memories penetrates your bubble and the room suddenly feels too small, too crowded and you can't breathe.

_Malfoy? Are you alright?_ Suddenly he's right beside you and the sound of his voice causes you to jump. You look up at him and find that you can't look away but you can't stay there either. You somehow get to your feet and stumble through the room. It's undignified and plebeian to be this drunk, but you don't really care and that's even worse. You trip through the portrait and the cool air of the hallway hits you like a punch in the face.

Resting your forehead against the cold stone of the wall you force yourself to breathe slowly in and out. Bile is rising in your throat, but you will not throw up because you're a Malfoy and you're stronger than that. Panic is still burning in your gut and you need to get it out somehow, so you ball your hand into a fist and ram it into the stone wall. Again, again and again. So hard you can feel the skin on your knuckles begin to tear. You find comfort in that, in the promise of one or two more blows and there will be blood on the wall. Your blood will be on the restored walls of Hogwarts where it should have ended up months ago if life had been just or made more sense. Because Crabbe is gone and Snape is gone and there was blood everywhere and you still hear your aunt's maniacal laughter or see the blank, cold stare of the Muggle in your dreams every night.

You don't notice how you're no longer alone until someone places a firm hand on your bicep and stop your hand mid-movement. Someone whose hand lingers on your arm even when you go rigid and no longer send you fist flying into the unyielding stone. You can feel the warmth emanating from the body that is mere inches from your own and you know who it is. You know it's him and it's wrong. You should tell him to fuck off or get over himself and his hero complex, but can't find the words. Then he gently squeezes your arm, and you can feel your shoulders slump as you lower your hand, a ragged breath escaping your lips. Your forehead is still resting against the cold stone, your eyes firmly shut, when you feel his hand travel down your arm and squeeze your aching hand before coming to rest on your hip.

The world is still spinning out of control but comes back to focus when the hand travels underneath your black cashmere shirt and over the planes of your stomach. Tracing the outline of a thin scar still left from the Sectumsempra that he cursed you with in sixth year. There is a fire slowly igniting in your gut and your skin feels like its burning. The hand slowly travel upwards and a thumb brushes over your nipple and its wrong and you should move, you shouldn't _want_ this, but Merlin you need him to never stop. Though when two hands make a move for your belt buckle you hesitate, and open your mouth to say something, anything.

_You're gonna have to tell me to stop if you don't want this_, his voice is husky against your neck. But not a word escapes your lips before a hand find its way inside your boxers and _fuck_. You are already painfully hard, and a sharp hiss escapes your lips as fingers skillfully wrap around your length and free you from the confinement of your pants. A swift jerk of his hand has your head briefly lolling back to rest on his shoulder, and you find yourself cheek to cheek, his breath hot against your already burning skin.

Then the hand is moving again, up and down your shaft and sending sparks dancing through your system. Your legs give in, and you're about to crumble to the ground when an arm snakes around your waist and press you firmly to his chest. A thumb circles over the glistening tip of your cock, and you think the sound escaping your lips should disgust you, but he adds a twisting motion to his movement and all reason escapes your mind. You're far from numb and unaffected now, but Merlin if this is what feeling feels like you never want to be numb again. Your hand finds his, still holding you up, and you intertwine your fingers, gripping his hand like a vice.

You can feel a familiar tightness starting to build in your balls, and even in your dizzy state you need to level the field. So you arch your back and your ass rubs against his groin. You feel disgustingly proud and even more turned on when you rub against a prominent bulge and elicit a guttural groan from his lips. The friction sends tingles up and down your spine and you're panting now. You find some kind of rhythm, your ass against the bulge in his pants and his hand rubbing and twisting your cock in quick, determined strokes. The pressure has begun to build in your stomach again, and soon you're crying out as you come all over the wall. There is an explosion of a million stars in front of your eyes, ripples of pleasure surging through your body and dulling your mind. You vaguely note his sounds of pleasure and feel his teeth bite down on your shoulder.

You don't know for how long you remain standing there, both breathing heavily and shuddering in the aftermath of release, before you untangle your hand from his. The reality of what you've done kick starts your mind and you shouldn't be here; should _feel_ this - whatever it is. You shouldn't feel period. He has no bloody right to come and save you from yourself.

_This changes nothing_,_ Potter,_ you say and know that it is the greatest lie you've ever told in your life, but you need the words to be true so badly that you say them anyway. When he lifts his head from your shoulder you breathe an inwardly sigh of relief, for one second thinking that he'll leave it at that. But then his lips are brushing against your neck and sending tingles down your spine again. He is tucks you back inside your pants and _fuck_ if you're not half hard again.

_You're wrong_. He whispers, but without any trace of spite or anger. Then he pulls at your arm so that you turn around, and you close your eyes because you can't look at him and not feel. Can't look at him without him noticing that you're lying. He cradles your head in his hands and suddenly you're exhausted. You don't realize that you're crying silently until he gently brushes the tears away with his thumbs.

_Look at me_, he says, his voice low and gentle. You shake your head and bite your lip so hard it hurts to keep it from trembling. _Look at me_, he repeats once more and this time you comply. You look into his eyes and you know he can see all of you. When he leans in and kisses you, the world finally comes back into focus and you can breathe again in the most breathless kind of way. When he pulls back you feel a pang of loss. The confusion must be evident in your eyes because he smirks and nuzzles your neck before biting down on your earlobe, eliciting a wanton groan from your lips, then soothes the wound with his lips and tongue. Then, his breath still hot against your ear, he whispers; _this changes everything. Draco_.

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_Thanks for reading!_

_Review?!_


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